


have some sympathy, have some taste

by fatal_drum



Series: sympathy for the devil [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Loneliness, Lukas childrearing techniques, M/M, Martin's mummy issues, Polish desserts, Romance, probably the closest to fluff you can get with this pairing, still a bit dark, strained familial relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 22:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19028893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: Martin knew he had a soft heart, and he’d stopped feeling sorry for it years ago. He could no more steel himself against the world than he could stop himself from breathing. He liked to think his attitude made the hardness of the world easier to bear—if not for himself, then at least for others.So far there was only one person he refused to feel any amount of sympathy for, and that person was currently loitering in Martin's office, touching all his things and generally making a nuisance of himself.





	have some sympathy, have some taste

_So if you meet me_  
_Have some courtesy_  
_Have some sympathy, and some taste_  
_Use all your well-learned politesse_  
_Or I'll lay your soul to waste, mmm yeah_

—The Rolling Stones, "Sympathy for the Devil"

* * *

Martin’s mother always told him his heart was too soft. _You’d love the devil if he stood still long enough,_ she’d complain each time he caught a spider between his palms to carry outside instead of killing it, or when he fed the stray cats that gathered in their back garden. She made the same complaint when he stopped to give money to people on the street, money they could hardly spare, or when he tried to cuddle up next to her on the sofa. His mother had no time for sloppy displays of affection.

Martin knew he had a soft heart, and he’d stopped feeling sorry for it years ago. He could no more steel himself against the world than he could stop himself from breathing. He liked to think his attitude made the hardness of the world easier to bear—if not for himself, then at least for others.

So he signed every petition thrust at him by an eager university student, listened to every stranger on the tube who poured out their life story, and generally accepted that his heart would bleed for every soul who came his way.

So far there was only one person he refused to feel any amount of sympathy for, and that person was currently loitering in Martin's office, touching all his things and generally making a nuisance of himself. 

“How’s my favorite assistant?” Peter asked, peering over Martin’s shoulder as he worked.

Martin could feel the cold _wrongness_ leaking from him, almost palpable in its intensity, like an awful, sucking void torn in the fabric of reality. By now it was so familiar he scarcely noticed it most days. He was beginning to suspect he could grow used to anything.

“I’m fine,” Martin gritted out, doing his best to keep working as if Peter weren’t watching him type every word.

“You remind me of one of my tutors, when you get that little crease on your forehead.” Peter tapped Martin’s brow, making him scowl. “She got that same look when I’d mouth off to her. I think her name was...Irma, perhaps? Or Ingrid. In my defense, there were rather a lot of them.”

“Drive them off, did you?”

“Oh, no. I quite liked... _Isobel,_ I think? I wasn’t allowed to keep any of them more than a few months.” He shrugged. “Couldn’t have the future servants of Forsaken sprouting attachments, now, could we? It would defeat the purpose.”

Martin felt something cold lodge itself in his chest, something that had nothing to do with the lurking presence of Peter’s patron.

“What...happened to them, afterwards?” he asked.

It was hard to place the emotion in Peter’s gaze as he said, “I don’t think you want to know that, Martin.”

The room fell silent until, after a long moment, Peter snapped his fingers.

“Iris! Her name was Iris.” He grinned broadly. “Not getting so old yet, am I?”

Martin turned back to his work, pretending to be utterly fascinated by financial spreadsheets. Eventually Peter wandered off, presumably to find someone else to discomfit.

* * *

 The restaurant was unnervingly silent around them, making Martin conscious of each clumsy sound he made: the clink of his glass against the table, the scrape of his cutlery against the china plates. Martin was vaguely terrified he’d break something; the teacups were so delicate he could almost see through the edges, the stems of the glasses so narrow he thought they might snap between his fingers

He wasn’t sure if the place was truly deserted, or if Peter had summoned his patron, wrapping the Lonely around them like a shroud of empty silence. Neither would have surprised him.

Peter sipped from a glass of something clear and brown, the name of which had been long and Gaelic and expensive-sounding. He’d offered Martin a taste, but Martin rarely strayed from his preference of pretty, fruit-flavored cocktails, and one sniff of Peter’s drink had nearly singed his nostrils.

“Any news on that fiasco with Accounts Payable?” Peter asked.

Martin shuddered. “It’s...handled. For now.”

“Then we’ve concluded the business portion of our meal, and just in time for dessert,” Peter said brightly. “I took the liberty of ordering ahead.”

As if on cue, a waiter appeared with two small plates with delicate little forks. He poured Martin a cup of fragrant, steaming tea, then scurried away before he could thank him. When Martin looked at his plate, he felt something tighten in his chest.

“You found a place that makes _kremówka,”_ he breathed. “How did you—?”

“They don’t, ordinarily,” Peter said. “But they were willing to make an exception. Go on, have a bite.”

Fighting the fine tremor in his hands, Martin took the tiny fork and speared a bit of cake, feeling the crunch of the perfectly-crisped crust before he hit the creamy filling. His mother had spent hours making cakes like this one, back when she had the strength to beat the cream, the patience to keep whisking and whisking so it didn’t curdle. He closed his eyes as the flavor exploded on his tongue, a rich and tender sweetness.

When he looked up, Peter was watching him intently. Martin flushed and took a sip of his tea, which went perfectly with the cream cake, just astringent enough to stop the taste from being cloying.

“Do you like it?” Peter asked, eyes still fixed on Martin’s face. He hadn’t touched his portion at all.

“It’s perfect,” Martin said honestly. “Just like my mother used to make.”

Martin felt the familiar spark of pain at the memory of her lined face, the judgment in her weary eyes. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if he missed her or not, and that was the worst of it. His emotions refused to order themselves where she was concerned.

“Do you have any other family?” Peter asked.

“I thought you knew everything about me,” Martin said bitterly. The whole meal was beginning to feel like a trap, and one he’d walked into willingly.

“Only what people tell me.” Peter tilted his head. “Is it so strange that I’d want to get to know you?”

“Yes,” Martin snapped.

Peter finally took a bite of his pastry, groaning with satisfaction. The sound made Martin incredibly uncomfortable. He looked down at his plate.

“I suppose my father’s still around somewhere,” Martin admitted. “I haven’t seen him since I was small. He could have died years ago, for all I know. Mum didn’t have any family.”

“I could find him for you,” Peter said.

“What for? So we can stare at each other awkwardly, and he can pretend to be sorry? No, thanks.”

“You could punish him,” Peter suggested with a cold smile. “It’s no less than he deserves, abandoning you like that. Your god would enjoy the sacrifice. Or mine, if you prefer not to get your hands dirty.”

“Who would that help?”  

“You,” Peter said simply. “A little revenge can be incredibly cleansing. You spend so much time sparing others’ feelings—do you even think of your own?”

“I don’t care, you’re not going after him. Promise me, Peter.”

“Oh, fine, spoilsport. I promise. Want me to pinky swear?” Peter’s smile widened to a grin. “I’ll do it.”

Martin rolled his eyes, returning his attention to the cake. No sense in letting it go to waste. His mum would have smacked him with her wooden spoon.

“What about you?” Martin finally asked.

Peter took a moment to swallow his mouthful of pastry, licking crumbs from his lips. “Pardon?”

“Do you...get on well? With your parents?”

Peter got an odd look on his face, one Martin couldn’t quite place. It reminded him of the expression Peter had worn when discussing his tutors.

“I see Father from time to time. We don’t really have much in common.”

“And your mother?”

Peter’s jaw twitched almost imperceptibly.

“Mother was never really suited to being a Lukas. Once she produced my sister, she was compensated for her troubles and...went away. Probably retired on the other side of the globe, I imagine. If she was smart.”

It was a better answer than Martin had expected. Perhaps it was his patron that made him ask questions he didn’t want the answers to. He fought the urge to reach across the table, to touch the broad hand clenched in the linen tablecloth.

They were interrupted by Peter’s mobile ringing. It was some trite eighties tune about owning a lonely heart, and Martin’s eyes nearly rolled out of his head when he recognized it.

He didn’t argue when Peter insisted on ordering a delicately wrapped box of _kremówka_ for Martin to take home.

* * *

 Martin would have missed it if he hadn’t just signed and dated a small mountain of administrative forms, indelibly stamping the day’s date on the back of his eyelids.

For a moment he just blinked, thinking it was some sort of paperwork-induced hallucination. But the birth date on Peter’s file continued to match the one Martin had just scribbled ad nauseum, and he was forced to admit the truth: he had nearly missed his boss’s birthday, and even if said boss was an eldritch horror and general disaster of a human being, Martin couldn’t let the day pass without doing _something._  

There was no one to notice when Martin took an early lunch, racing from Elias’s office so fast he nearly tripped over the potted plant in the hallway for the third time that week. It took him over an hour to find what he was looking for, but in the end, he decided he’d done pretty decently for such short notice. If Peter didn’t laugh in his face for trying.

Peter himself didn’t make an appearance until half-past five, manifesting as a patch of cold emptiness just behind Martin’s left shoulder.

“What’s all this, then?” Peter asked, gesturing to the two small parcels on his desk.

“Why don’t you find out?”

With a bemused expression, Peter teased open the ribbon on the bakery box. For someone with such large hands, he had deft fingers, unravelling the knot with astonishing delicacy.

“You’ve brought me cake,” Peter said.

 _“Sernik,”_ Martin said. “It’s made with a special kind of cheese. You seemed to like the cream cake well enough.”

Peter’s hand lingered on the second package, stroking the smooth wrapping paper. It had a pattern of faded vine roses, reminiscent of an old textbook, and Peter slid a finger beneath the seam before peeling it open slowly. He laughed when he saw the cover.

 _“The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,”_ he said fondly. “How did you know?”

“It, erm. Seemed appropriate.”

Martin couldn’t afford a first edition, but the leather-bound volume was a handsome one, the cover soft from years of use. He liked to think of the hands that had touched older books, the eyes that had scanned the same pages, paused on the same words he read.

“What’s the occasion?” Peter asked.

“It’s—it’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

Peter blinked, eyes going distant as if he were thinking hard. “I suppose it is! Thank you for remembering, Martin.”

“Don’t people...get you birthday gifts?” Martin asked, frowning.

“Not generally, no. It’s not something the Lukases are known for.”

That was the last straw. Before Martin knew what he was doing, he pushed back his chair and launched himself at Peter, face buried in his broad chest, arms wrapped tight around his sides. Peter paused for a moment as if unsure how to respond. Finally his hands settled on Martin’s back, huge and surprisingly warm.

“Martin, what are you...?”

“Shut up,” Martin ordered, and Peter did.

They stayed like that for a long moment, with Martin’s cheek pressed against Peter’s chest, long past the moment they should have pulled away. Peter stroked one hand down Martin's spine until it settled at the small of his back, a warm and possessive weight.

When Martin looked up, Peter cupped his chin, leaning down very slowly. Martin didn’t stop him as he claimed his lips in a kiss that was much softer than he’d allowed himself to imagine.

“You’re such a sweet thing,” Peter murmured against his mouth. “I could just eat. You. _Up.”_

Martin shivered in Peter’s arms, knowing Peter could feel it, but unable to bring himself to care.

“Come home with me,” Peter said, tracing a finger over Martin’s lower lip. “You can read my new book to me, and I can feed you cake with my hands. We can wash it all down with champagne.”

It was a terrible idea. Martin could list a hundred reasons why it was, from the fact that Peter was his boss to the sneaking suspicion that Peter didn’t mean _eat you up_ metaphorically.

But when he thought of going home to his empty flat, and Peter doing the same, he knew his answer.

“I’d like that,” Martin said, and Peter drew him in for another kiss, longer this time. It felt like he was drowning, and Peter was the only thing holding him above the waves.  

“Let’s go home,” Peter murmured.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @cuttooth for your insightful suggestions and general cheerleading as we drag each other deeper into the Peter Lukas trash heap!
> 
> Peter's ringtone is, in fact [Owner of a Lonely Heart, because Peter is a disaster and he's not even sorry.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SVOuYquXuuc)


End file.
